And so for months she replied to her Love: “No, no”; While sorrow was gnawing her beauties ever and more, Till he, long-suffering and weary, grew to show Less warmth than before. And, after an absence, wrote words absolute: That he gave her till Midsummer morn to make her mind clear; And that if, by then, she had not said Yea to his suit, He should wed elsewhere. Thence on, at unwonted times through the lengthening days She was seen in the church—at dawn, or when the sun dipt And the moon rose, standing with hands joined, blank of gaze, Before the script. She thinned as he came not; shrank like a creature that cowers As summer drew nearer; but still had not promised to wed, When, just at the zenith of June, in the still night hours, She was missed from her bed. “The church!” they whispered with qualms; “where often she sits.” They found her: facing the brass there, else seeing none, But feeling the words with her finger, gibbering in fits; And she knew them not one. And so she remained, in her handmaids’ charge; late, soon, Tracing words in the air with her finger, as seen that night— Those incised on the brass—till at length unwatched one noon, She vanished from sight. And, as talebearers tell, thence on to her last-taken breath Was unseen, save as wraith that in front of the brass made moan; So that ever the way of her life and the time of her death Remained unknown. And hence, as indited above, you may read even now The quaint church-text, with the date of her death left bare, In the aged Estminster aisle, where folk yet bow Themselves in prayer. _October_ 30, 1907. THE MARBLE-STREETED TOWN I REACH the marble-streeted town, Whose “Sound” outbreathes its air Of sharp sea-salts; I see the movement up and down As when she was there. Ships of all countries come and go, The bandsmen boom in the sun A throbbing waltz; The schoolgirls laugh along the Hoe As when she was one. I move away as the music rolls: The place seems not to mind That she—of old The brightest of its native souls— Left it behind! Over this green aforedays she On light treads went and came, Yea, times untold; Yet none here knows her history— Has heard her name. PLYMOUTH (1914?). A WOMAN DRIVING HOW she held up the horses’ heads, Firm-lipped, with steady rein, Down that grim steep the coastguard treads, Till all was safe again! With form erect and keen contour She passed against the sea, And, dipping into the chine’s obscure, Was seen no more by me. To others she appeared anew At times of dusky light, But always, so they told, withdrew From close and curious sight.